


New Hope

by flashforeward



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5328812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen Black is a king in a strange country and he must restore his seat of power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme about Stephen restoring Lost Hope.

The Gentleman's final screams rang through the dark ballroom, an echo that seemed like it would never end, would only haunt the halls of this Lost Hope for all eternity. But slowly it faded, dropping away and leaving Stephen alone in the quiet that, in its own right, echoed just as much. He stood before the tree as its roots finished settling back into their home, staring down at the grave he had filled so easily. He still felt the magic coursing through him, the anger rising up in him and pushing him forward. He pulled in a deep, unsteady breath and stepped back, lifting his head and looking around at the empty room - where had all the dancers gone? He was rather glad not to see them, their faces haunted his dreams for so long before he didn't want to have to live with them for the rest of his...unnatural life. Still, the house itself had not changed. The hall was vast, yes, but dim and cold. The walls were covered in ivy and moss that creeped in from cracks in the walls.

Stephen strode across to the wall and settled his hand against it, feeling the cold and the damp down to his bones. "You poor thing," he whispered to the house, the house that he could feel beyond this room. The house who's halls he had walked so many nights without understanding but that now spoke to him, called to him, tugged at his power and begged him to set it to rights. He took a deep breath and focused, listening to the House's pleas, pushing power through his palm into the wall. He could feel it warming beneath his touch, drying out. When he opened his eyes he saw that the moss and the ivy had retreated, clearing the wall and the window. He smiled at his handiwork and stepped back, hands on his hips, to admire what he'd accomplished.

But when he turned around and saw that the other walls remained overgrown and broken, his heart sank. Between this room, all of the halls, the other rooms, the exterior...if he had to go wall by wall, he would exhaust himself. Not only that, but the tedium. He wasn't sure he could stand that. He blew out a breath and turned back around, only to find that the wall he had righted was back to its previous state. "Damn and blast," he whispered, the curse slipping out of him with surprisingly little difficulty. He had been so proper all his life. He had to be, it was for his safety and job security, but now. Now he was the master and being proper was a decision he could make, a choice, not a mantle he was forced to wear.

He wondered for a brief moment if he should start somewhere else, but this room, this was the heart of the Gentleman's decadence and corruption. This was where he had to start if he wanted to restore this house. But how? He stepped up to the wall again, settling both hands against the stone. It was cold and damp again and again it seeped into him. Again he pushed back with his magic, listening to the house as it told him where to send his power. Deep into the heart of the wall, where it could spread and push back out, reclaiming itself. Renewing itself. When he felt the stone properly beneath his hands, he kept them there, kept pushing waves of magic into the house, into the room itself. He closed his eyes, feeling the drain on himself but fighting against it. Just a little longer, he was certain. Just a little more.

With a gasp, he pulled back, falling to his knees. His body shook, his head was light. He tried to stand and stumbled into the wall, using it to lower himself to the ground. His eyes were still closed and he felt like he could sleep for a hundred years. A thousand years. More. But then he heard the bell. It was a different bell than the one that had summoned himself and Lady Pole to their nightly purgatory. That bell had been forlorn yet insistent. This bell, this chime, this was...cheerful.

Stephen opened his eyes and looked around in awe at the fully restored room. Hope no longer looked lost and, judging by the ringing of the chime, it no longer felt lost either. Stephen allowed himself a few more moments to pull himself together before pushing to his feet and rushing through the vast structure. The hallways were no longer a maze to him, and he soon found his way outside. Faery was an odd place, he saw, as he stood before Hope's front door, but he had little thought for where the house was just then. He was more concerned with... He rushed into the garden - full of exotic plants Stephen had never seen before - and whirled around to look up for the first time at the facade of Lost Hope.

Except.

Except it wasn't Lost. It was. It was magnificent. The whole building looked new, freshly built. He had seen the affects of his magic in the halls as he'd hurried out, but standing here, looking at the exterior, staring up at this fresh new manor...His heart swelled. He had done this. He had reached out and he had touched Lost Hope and had, with his own power, he had made it...the chime sounded again and he jumped, looking around for the source, looking up. The sky was dark, no moon. A new moon? If Faery had such a thing, perhaps.

Perhaps.

Perhaps. "New Hope," Stephen said, his voice awed.

The chime sounded - the house's thanks? - and the door swung on its hinges, inviting Stephen back inside, as if saying there was so much more for him to see. More for him to do. He stepped up into the house, gentle hands on the door frame, gentle hands closing the door. This house was his now and, it seemed, he was the house's. It was not a position he could find fault with, and as he walked slowly through the halls, he ran gentle fingers along the walls, smiling to himself as he set off to get to know New Hope.


End file.
